The 18 So-Real Emotional Stages of Running a Half-Marathon Now

That’s just the beginning. We’re about to break down all of the feelings that come with conquering 13.1 miles. Yeah, training for a half-marathon is physically tough. And once race week rolls around, you’re so overwhelmed with emotions that you’d put T-Swift and Adele to shame.

Stage one: Oh sh*t. It’s the night before and you’ve got to pack, carbo-load, and roll out those muscles all before 8 p.m. (which is your bedtime). Before you know it, 4:30 a.m. is going to sneak attack the crap out of you.

Stage two: Panic. Your alarm rings, and it’s time to get dressed, grab all of your sh*t, and get your butt to the starting line. Do you have your bib? What about snacks? How could you forget SNACKS? Might as well give up now.

Stage three: Sweet, sweet relief. Seeing all the other runners makes you want to break out into High School Musical’s “We’re All In this Together.” Just follow these people, and you’ll probably end up where you’re supposed to be.

Stage four: Utter confusion. Where the hell is this starting line anyway? Between massive amounts of people and insane security, you might as well be in the Triwizard Maze from Harry Potter (Google it). And once you’ve weaseled your way through all of that, you have to figure out if you really have to pee or if it’s just nerves. Honestly, it could be both.

Stage five: Bored as hell. While the race starts at 7:45 a.m., it takes you 20 minutes to even reach the starting line.

Stage six: Aggressive AF. Crowds suck. Being stuck in a mosh pit while shuffling your feet inches at a time towards the start of the race makes you want to scream “GET OUT OF MY WAY,” turn into the Hulk, and stomp on anyone in your path.

Stage seven: It’s happening. And before you know it, you’re across the starting line and running like you’re about to win the damn Kentucky Derby.

Stage eight: Can’t. Breathe. Um, yeah, you didn’t notice, but you were sprinting at record pace for that first mile. Now what did we learn from this?

Stage nine: Annoyed. How is it possible that you have to pee? Doesn’t your body know that it needs to hold onto all fluids for dear life? We’ve got 13 miles to run, bladder! Porta-potty pit stop it is.

Stage 10: Pure effing bliss. Your fans have all turned out to support you (as far as you’re concerned, literally everyone at this race is here for yours truly). There’s a sign that reminds you that “You’re beating everyone behind you,” some old lady brought her cat to watch the race, and you feel like you could do this all damn day. Thank you, thank you, you’re far too kind.

Stage 12: I feel nothing? Next, you begin to ignore all of the ouch and focus on your jams. Props to Justin Timberlake for singing the pain away. Love you, J.T.

Stage 13: Eat my dust. That cute couple with the bride and groom t-shirts is no match for your speed. As you pass them, you think, “See ya never, suckers!” So much for team spirit.

Stage 14: Alarm. Oh no. Do I have to pee again? HOW? I’m no doctor, but the sweat alone should be enough to give my bladder some PTO, right? Wrong. So we meet again, porta-potty.

Stage 15: Noooooo. After stopping, your legs have been replaced with cement bricks, or at least that’s what they feel like. You grimace, focus on that adorable couple that passed you while you took a pee, and try to catch up. Must. Move. Legs. Faster.